Savin' Me
by Strigoi17
Summary: Ryou Bakura has a curse. A curse that lets him see the length in people's lifespans, in glowing, constantly ticking, orange letters above their heads. A curse Marik Ishtar must help him through.
1. 1:The Beginning

My name is Ryou Bakura. I live in the big, overpopulated, brightly-lit city of New York, New York. I own an apartment in Manhattan, and I live alone. I have a lackluster job, the same job I've had for three years, as a waiter at Le Francais Renard, a cafe swarmed with occupants likely to either be reading Russian Lit in its original tongue or crafting a thrilling novel. I'm a major in Language, American Literature and Psychology, a little less than a year graduated.

And I used to be just like you.

~*~

_Three Years Prior_

I was walking home from work. Everyone swarmed around me, either toting coffee cups and briefcases or pushing strollers and carrying pastel-colored diaper bags on their hunched shoulders, kept their faces forward and didn't apologize as they collided with my shoulder while rushing past.

_I'm so late!_ I moan internally, tightening my grip on my backpack. Marik was probably wondering where I was, I was already supposed to be home twenty minutes ago, and I was just leaving work! Ugh, I wholeheartedly blame Damien for my tardiness; it was my first week, and of course he made me stay overtime.

I sigh, debating whether waiting in line for the subway would take as much time as the twenty-minute walk, when it starts to rain.

Panicking, my thoughts immediately stray from my timely transportation to the homework tucked in the non-waterproof confines of my bag. I couldn't miss another assignment, Madame Bellrose would kill me!

With a rush of mad desperateness, I raise my hand, the blue sleeve of my hoodie already soaked, and do something I firmly detested, something only Marik had made me do twice:

I signaled a cab.

They were grimey, with rude drivers, and they always smelled like the last thing in them, but they were the quickest and easiest option at this point.

Thankfully, a saffron yellow Taxi swerves onto the curb, and I sigh. I lean forward, open the door, flipping my frost-white locks from my brown eyes-

But suddenly someone grabbed me around the waist, yanked me away from the cab. "What the hell are you doing?" I squeak, as the practically throw me sideways. I look up, opening my mouth to respond, but am cut short by the sight I see:

A giant cement truck, grey as the stormy sky above, slid sideways on the slick, gum-dotted road, colliding straight with the cab.

Wide-eyed, for a second, I stare, mouth agape. With a sickening crunch, the yellow side of the cab was crumbled like a tin can against the sidewalk, the poor driver inside going with it.

Looking over my shoulder, my eyes only flickering back to the wreck once, I see...

A mass of people. Staring. No evidence of my Guardian Angel, the one who had just miraculously saved my life.

So, I do what my nature demanded of me:

I fainted.


	2. 2:The Last Days of The Age of Innocence

The first thing I heard was two conversing voices, the first thing I felt was the starched sheets beneath me, smelling of sick people and disinfectant. I had to be in a hospital.

"Oh my God, what happened?"

"He fainted, in shock, probably. I'm sure you heard about the accident on the news?"

When the other speaker replies, his voice is impatient. "Yes, yes, I saw it. He's okay, right? On the news, they said he was 'nearly hit.' What the hell is that supposed to-?"

"Someone pulled him from the cab just before the collision." He paused. "And no, we don't know who to thank for saving your boyfriend's life."

For a moment, I stay stone still, eyes shut, feigning sleep, analyzing the conversation. The first voice belonged to Marik Ishtar, the one voice I've been longing to hear all day; the other I didn't know. It was confident and low-toned, taking control of the conversation, but laced through it was the sense that he had more important things to take care of. I keep my lids closed, hoping to hear more of the conversation, but all that follows was Marik sighing and thanking the second man, his voice heavy, and the sound of him falling into the chair next to me with a thump.

I take now to open my eyes.

The first thing I see is the pristine, untouched white ceiling; the first thing I hear is Marik's joyful cry. "Ryou! You're awake!" Though his loud outcry did a deal to my pounding head, I nod, head eagerly turning to him. But, to my complete, utter shock, my eyes wander to something other than his lavender eyes.

It catches my attention, holds it in an iron grip, as fear – and curiosity – dances through my system like Salma Hayek and her anaconda in Dusk Till Dawn. I blink, trying to make sense of it –

But, hard as I tried, the numbers, glowing intense neon orange, hovering above his head, constantly ticking with blinding speed, made _no_ sense.

I hastily yank myself up, ignoring the pounding in my temples. Furrowing my brow, I lean forward, silently stretching my arm forward. Hesitantly, I wave my hand above Marik's head, swatting at the numbers; but they refuse to dissipate. It was like sticking my hand through smoke, my fingers sliding right past it. I didn't feel a thing brush my skin, not heat or any sort of texture. Just air.

"Uhm… Ry, what're you doing?"

I glance back at Marik, to see him raising a sandy-blonde eyebrow at me. Sighing, I sit back, forbidding myself to look back at the fiery digits. "Nothing," I shake my head, force an innocent smile. "Nothing. Erm… can-can we go home - ?" Marik nods. "I've already got you signed out. I just blame that idiotic truck driver, for scaring you like that…"

Standing up, Marik hands me my jacket. Taking it, I realize I'm still in the black jeans and blue NeverShoutNever! shirt I wore when I fell unconscious. I rub my pounding temples, and, as Marik grabs my shaking hand, we walk from the hospital room.

Not two seconds of walking into the Hospital's lobby, a stretcher bursts through the door. Above the body, swarmed by EMTs, are floating orange numbers.

_ Ten…_

Nine…

Eight…

Seven…

Six…

Five…

They rush through the doors to the emergency room, barking rushed orders to one another. Marik's numbers were higher than any number I'd ever seen in a text book in class, but this woman's was so low. My eyes widen, falling momentarily from the dying numbers to the face that owned them. It was blank, naked of emotion, eyes shut and mouth slightly agape. Her silver hair falls into those closed eyes, across that aged, pale face. Immediately, I tear my eyes away from the poor woman, to the burning digits that I finally understand.

_ Three…_

Two…

One...

Marik grabs my hand, making me jump out of my sweat-covered skin. "…Ryou," He whispers, voice soft as satin. I look sideways at him, hardly daring to turn my head from the body that I knew had reached its fate. "This _is_ a hospital," he reminds me. I nod, finally looking away from the breaking scene.

~*~

Dinner that night was simple pepperoni pizza, Marik's favorite. We sit on the tattered, black couch in the sitting room of the apartment we happily shared, watching one of those pointless reality TV shows he always takes immense humor in. I sit cross-legged, chatting mindlessly with my lover, merely nibbling on my own food.

I've managed to keep my eyes off his dwindling lifespan, ticking away above those sandy-silver locks. I focus on the depth of his eyes, or the timbre of his voice; not the fire-hued digits. For a while, I actually manage this – but sporadically, my eyes dart to the supposed empty space above his head. I've come up with a defensive mechanism for these times, too: The time was abundant. It wasn't like he was going to die tomorrow.

He shoves a slice of pepperoni into his mouth, eyelids closed, making me laugh. Audibly gulping, he opens his lavender eyes, innocent to the best degree. "What?" He asks, clueless. I grin, setting down my pizza.

"You got a little…"

"Hm?"

"A little…"

I reach forward, and with the pad of my thumb, wipe the smudge of sauce from the corner of his mouth. "That," I laugh, licking it off the tip of my thumb.

Marik clears his throat. "Do you have _any_ idea how hot that makes me?"

Laughing, I hide my blush roughly behind my hand. "I'm sorry, Love."

He rolls his eyes. "_You_, move your hand and get your ass over here."

He clasps his hand behind my neck, pulling me to his chest. My eyes flutter closed, as his lips connect with mine, soft as velvet. His fingers shift, to stroke the back of my neck, sending goose bumps down my spine, as he sighs against my lips. He bites lightly at the skin of my lower lip, tugging down slightly.

A hand slithers down from my neck, to my chest, pushing me against the arm of the couch. He leans over me, satin-smooth hair brushing against my blushing cheeks. His hand quickly slides from my chest to my leg, thumb and index finger moving in slow circles over my jean-clad thigh.

I sigh against him, feeling my muscles tense. Breath catches in my throat, as his becomes more jagged, cut by lust and left unfinished at the ends. His other hand, the one behind my neck, slides down my neck, to my chest, my waist. His finger slides through the gap in between the waist band of my jeans and my underwear, stroking the bare skin.

Suddenly, I find my wits. Startled by the sudden, provocative gesture, I jerk away from his arms. My eyes are wide, guilty, and soon I can barely look at him as the pants rack my body. For a split second, I _wanted_ Marik. Every single, handsome, charming inch of him, of that tight, coffee-colored skin. I glance away.

"I'm sorry, Ryou…" He sighs, leaning away. And though it's an apology, I could hear the disappointment.

Immediately, guilt swarms me. "No, no… Marik…" I whimper, voice filled with chagrin. I lean forward, wrapping my arms around his thin, but toned, chest. I rest my cheek against it, sighing. I can feel him smile, as he nuzzles into my hair. He leans back, taking me with him. Eyes still closed, I hear him sigh.

"…Snooki's such a whore…"

_ You should've done it. Everyone dies too soon, babe. _

The snide remark echoed through my head, surprising me. It was the first time the voice – so like mine – made itself heard; but not the last.


End file.
